


The Only Exception

by nastally



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Jokes, Boys Kissing, Clubbing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, M/M, Mature rating because of explicit drug use, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Some Humor, coked up conversations, for five minutes or so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:59:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally
Summary: Somewhere in America, in the late 70s, Roger and Freddie are very drunk, very good friends and very close to letting the past catch up with them...
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 78
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Plainxte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plainxte/gifts).



> Everything about this is deliberately vague. It's set vaguely in the late 70s and it's vaguely inspired by Plainxte's wonderful Path of Nevermore. Basically, dear reader, this story - as all stories - is yours. Make of it what you will.
> 
> But it _definitely_ is a birthday present for Plainxte! I wish you a very happy birthday, you kind-hearted, talented lady. 🎊 Thank you for being a friend, a relentless cheerleader and for sharing your stories with us all. Love you lots! ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> Huge thanks to QuirkySubject, who helped me figure it all out.💕

\- - -

He's too drunk for this. 

But then, he's probably too drunk to be anywhere else and pumped too full of chemical euphoria to sleep. So this is alright. 

Roger takes another ill-advised swig from his bottle and swallows it with a grimace. It's vile, this American stuff. Besides, the idea was to _not_ end the night hugging the toilet bowl, and beer on whiskey is never a great idea. He's considering asking for a glass of water instead and snorts at the thought. Some rock star. 

Then again, he doesn't fancy shouting over the music and trying to make himself understood. His voice is fucked as it is, which doesn't bode well for the show tomorrow night. 

_'What can I get you, sir?' The stewardess on the plane, a pretty, heart-shaped face with a blinding white customer service smile._

_'Water, please.'_

_A smile that falters a little, eyelashes fluttering, caked in mascara. 'Excuse me?'_

_The second half of the word may have been more of a lazily dropped ‘ah’ sound than fully pronounced, but come on. Before he can repeat himself, Freddie gets involved, leaning right over him. He smells of cologne and the vodka mixers they've been drinking. Roger ignores the strong urge to thread his fingers into the mass of dark locks right in front of his face and close his fist around a handful of Freddie’s thick hair._

_Too much vodka._

_'He'd like a waad’rrr,' Freddie drawls in his atrocious attempt at an American accent, which promptly results in a cup of water on Roger's fold-out table, and they both suppress their laughter just long enough for the stewardess to be out of earshot._

Fucking Freddie. He's been gone for a bloody long time considering his last words had been 'back in a minute, dear' and Roger tries not to think about what he's up to - but does anyway. Until he’s no longer sure if it’s the images which arise in front of his inner eye or the excess of alcohol that is making him feel nauseous.

At least _some_ one's probably having a good time. 

'Just so you know.' Roger runs through it in his head, what he's going to say when Freddie turns up again. 'I wouldn't do this for anyone else, so you can count yourself bloody lucky.' And it's true. Waiting around at the bar in a gay club while Freddie's getting off with someone in the gents isn't his idea of a good night. But they've ditched everyone else, including Paul - and that had seemed like a tremendously good idea at the time - so it's not like he's just going to fuck off and leave Freddie to it in a city neither of them knows. Besides, he thinks, it's not like Freddie hasn't been _his_ wingman plenty of times before. 

And there’s someone steadily encroaching on his personal space, isn’t there.

"No thanks," Roger tells the burly man who's just come up beside him, one arm on the bar as he gives him an appraising once-over. Out of the corner of his eye, Roger can see him give a shrug and turn away. He lets out a breath and slouches against the bar again, taking another swig. It's not _that_ unnerving. Not as much as he imagined the first time he agreed to come to one of these places. Most of the guys have no problem taking no for an answer. Roger figures it's because there's more of a chance that rejection will come in the form of a swift jab to the jaw if unwelcome advances are too aggressive. Anyway, no one really bothers him much while he's with Freddie. 

Who really should be back by now. 

Roger squints into the crowd, scanning the dance floor. It's a bit of a pointless endeavour because he can't really see. It's been hours since he’s taken out his contacts, sacrificing his eyesight for relief from itchy, stinging eyes. He could put on his prescription sunglasses and look like a right wally. Maybe he should, given that he's starting to get a little worried, both for himself and Freddie. 

Mostly Freddie. 

Although he's too fucked at this point to be properly concerned about anything, including the fact that he has no idea which part of town they're in while only vaguely remembering the name of the hotel. The Grand… something? 

Right, he should really put on his sunglasses and find Freddie. 

There’s just one problem. 

Where the fuck are his sunglasses? 

Roger starts feeling around the front of his shirt and then his pockets and almost loses his balance in the process. Really should’ve stopped drinking for a bit after the whiskey.

It's at that moment when Freddie chooses to materialise seemingly out of nowhere, as though he’s stepped straight out of the swirling, colourful lights flashing across Roger’s face. 

"Whoa, hey...” Even more unexpected than Freddie's sudden appearance is the fact that he's just thrown his arms around Roger's neck, pressing into him. He’s hot and solid against Roger’s chest, eyelids drooping and pupils the size of saucers, his grin slightly manic and a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. Roger blinks, staring into the deep blackness of those eyes while his mind is busy trying to decide on an appropriate reaction. It’s as if he’s been dozing and reality has just caught up with him, taking him off guard. "Uh..."

Freddie’s lips move but Roger can’t hear a word over the music and gives a little shake of his head. His free hand wraps around Freddie's waist instinctively, steadying him. Steadying them both. And that only lasts a moment, because then Freddie pulls away and seizes his hand firmly, dragging him along as he walks backwards. Straight into the sweaty, dancing crowd. When Freddie stops, Roger stumbles into him on unsteady feet. Freddie is laughing, his arms sliding back around Roger’s shoulders, anchoring them to each other. Around them, the crowd is moving, swaying, grinding. It draws them in like ocean waves. Falling in with the pounding rhythm of the music is easy and inevitable, which is all well and good. Except they’re not dancing like two drunken idiots - well, they _are_ probably - but Freddie is plastered against him and Roger’s hands are more at home on Freddie’s hips than they should be. Between flashes of blinding light, all Roger can see are the sharp contours of Freddie’s face and eyes gleaming beneath dark lashes. And for a moment, he's absolutely positive that Freddie is going to kiss him, messy and dirty, right here on the dance floor. There’s a wild flutter of excitement in his chest at the thought. Maybe it's the fact that he's as far from sobriety as a stripper from a nunnery, but the idea doesn't seem so outlandish. 

It wouldn't be a first, after all. Only it has been so long since the last time that it feels like a different lifetime entirely, one which neither of them has any intention of revisiting. That's something sober Roger knows perfectly well. 

Drunk Roger has other ideas. 

After all, they've come close enough, often enough, in various states of inebriation over the last half a decade. Frankly, he’s a little surprised they’ve made it this long. And there are a myriad of good reasons why this is a bad idea, only none of them come to mind right now as Freddie pulls him closer by the back of his neck, tilting his chin up. 

Roger forgets to breathe and his eyes fall shut. 

But Freddie’s lips brush his ear instead. 

He blinks his eyes open, not sure if he's deeply relieved or vaguely disappointed. 

"Pretend you're my boyfriend." 

"What." He's heard Freddie. He's not sure why he's asking. It’s just that his mind is clouded and everything feels very slow.

"Just do it.” Freddie’s fingers trail up the back of his neck and into his hair where they tighten. It feels nice and Roger hums in approval, then tries to think. Boyfriend. Right. He slides his hand into Freddie's back pocket, giving his arse a little squeeze. Might as well, while he’s there. He can't hear Freddie's giggle over the music but he can feel it, a vibration against his chest. It leaves a tingling warmth in its wake. When Freddie pulls back, there’s an utterly disarming smile on his face. Like this is nothing. Just a post-show hug. A cuddle on the tour bus, or waking up entangled in each other after passing out in the same bed. 

Casual, familiar affection. Implicit trust. 

"Is he watching?" Freddie asks, leaning in again, alcohol on his hot breath. Roger doesn’t have a single clue what he’s talking about.

"Who?" The tips of their noses brush as he turns his head a bit, squinting into the crowd around them. 

"Tall guy, leather jacket." Freddie says helpfully, nuzzling against his cheek. 

That could literally be almost anyone in the club and Roger can't help but laugh, his voice hitting a high note on the emphasis. "I can't fucking _see_ , Fred!"

They're both laughing now, swaying as they hold on to each other. It’s all they’ve got. The drunk leading the drunk. Freddie’s softened in his arms. He lets his head roll to the side and tilts it back, hanging off of him almost limply and exposing his sinewy neck. Without a first thought, nevermind a second, Roger bends forward and drags his lips and teeth over his pulse point. Because he wants to. Because he’s pretending they’re boyfriends, he corrects himself half-heartedly.  
Freddie almost headbutts him as he comes back up with a sharp intake of air. 

"Easy, tiger." 

When they lock eyes again, Freddie’s half-hooded gaze is all that is real. Their surroundings are a hazy blur - mostly because Roger is not only half blind but suffering from alcohol-induced tunnel vision. But he doesn’t mind. It’s so easy to let himself sink into that intimacy. And this time, he’s positive that _he_ is going to kiss Freddie. It seems like a terrific idea. Like they’ll both enjoy it. Roger wets his lips, trying to focus on just one thing. Freddie’s eyes, dark and warm. The elegant curve of his parted lips. That’s what they’re all about tonight, aren’t they? Having a good time. And his hand is still on Freddie’s arse. He’s got a nice arse, has Freddie.

Roger clumsily leans in and comes up against Freddie’s temple because Freddie has turned back over his shoulder. Ah. 

His head is spinning, more so the more he tries to keep his eyes on any one point in particular. Fuck, that last beer was one beer too many. Meanwhile, a thought crystallises in the confused haze of Roger’s mind. 

“What’s, uhh, what's the idea?” he slurs against Freddie’s cheek. “You tryna make sum'un jealous or get rid of him?”

Freddie’s hand is on his cheek the next moment, and Roger opens his eyes, which makes him realise he’d closed them. His gaze doesn’t make it all the way up but clings to Freddie’s mouth. His sultry lips and his teeth, poking out from beneath his top lip as he smiles. White and dark pink and evening stubble. Not that it’s evening anymore, it’s probably morning.

“Rog.”

“Mmh.” Roger leans into the hand cradling his cheek and hooks a finger into one of the loops on Freddie’s belt. Hang on, he’s not holding the bottle anymore. (Where the fuck has that gone? Did he drop it or set it down?) Oh well, it's probably for the best.

“You’re absolutely arseholed, aren’t you.” 

He is.

What follows is a blur, like a vivid dream, except a lot sweatier and far more unpleasant. He knows he’s staggering through the club, but he can’t really feel his legs and so it’s a bit like floating. Lights and faces all around. He’d be lost in them if it wasn’t for Freddie’s warm hand gripping his own tightly, pulling him along. Roger bumps into someone’s shoulder and barely notices, but there’s a shout and he mutters a mostly unintelligible apology, his tongue heavy in his mouth. 

A metal door creaks open and fresh air greets them. The wind cold, the wall cold, against his back. The relative silence of the city at night rings in his ears now that they’ve left the roar of the music behind.

“Do you need to throw up?”

He shakes his head, although he’s close. There’s cold sweat on his forehead which he becomes aware of when Freddie brushes his hair out of his face. Roger would like to look at him properly but can’t. He can barely keep himself from swaying as though he’s trying to escape the nausea through some strange, uncoordinated dance. It’s always the way. Like a knife’s edge. Going from simply drunk to thoroughly wankered, and he never knows he’s close until he’s there. One would think he’d have learned with age. 

One would be wrong.

“Let’s find a taxi.” When Freddie pulls him away from the wall by his hand, Roger falls against him like a sack of potatoes and almost lands both of them in the gutter. He can’t quite walk straight and Freddie can’t stop snickering, one arm around him now. “Dearie me! You’re a _mess_ ,” he declares, and breaks into a brief rendition of a Beatles classic. “... _whooo-oohh dizzy Miss Lizzy! Put your lil' hand in mine… You make me dizzy, dizzy Lizzy_!" 

They do find a taxi, although Roger isn’t sure when or how. He’s had nothing to do with it, in any case, but his head is pressed against cold, vibrating glass now, street lights flashing by. Freddie is being very loud, talking to the taxi driver in a precarious mix of his regular received pronunciation and his faux American accent. 

"Shut up," Roger mutters, trying to keep his eyes open. Breath in, breath out. He's got to keep breathing or he's going to have to tell the driver to pull over. 

Keeping his eyes open becomes impossible. 

"Rog- Fuck's sake, Roger-" 

Roger grunts, blinking at Freddie bleary-eyed. Freddie, who is pulling at his arm, none too gently. The car isn't moving any longer, but it's hardly relevant because the world around him is spinning much too fast. 

"I'm not carrying you. Come on." 

As Roger tries to move, his stomach lurches.

"Gonna be sick," he informs Freddie even as they topple out of the taxi. There's a reply but he doesn't catch it, because he's already doubled over, bracing himself with one hand against the wall and emptying the contents of his stomach onto the pavement.

"Oh dear, oh dear." Freddie tuts like an exasperated, doting mother but keeps well clear until Roger is done retching. "Better?" 

Roger straightens and takes a couple of unsteady steps back from the large potted plant outside the hotel which he just threw up behind. He nods, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and wipes his face on his sleeve. "Yeah." 

His throat is burning, his eyes are watering and the inside of his mouth tastes vile, but at least he feels a bit more with it now. And his head isn't spinning so much anymore, which is a great improvement. 

"Sorry," he croaks and looks over at his friend, who has his jacket wrapped around himself tightly, his hair a mess of large curls. His eyes glimmer in the dark, smudged eyeliner and heavy lashes. 

"Let's go," Freddie whines, the words followed by a violent shudder. "I'm fucking _freezing_."

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I meant for this to be a one shot, I really did, but it kept getting longer and longer AND LONGER, so have three short-ish chapters instead because that's how it makes the most sense to me now. 😂


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very happy you're all enjoying it! This has been fun to write. I just want to say one thing: Don't do drugs, kids. Or if you must, do them responsibly. Six or seven lines of coke in one night is too much and may well cause you to lose your jacket, your prescription sunglasses and 4 hours of your memory. Personal experience? Yes.
> 
> Coke is no joke. And having said that, enjoy the story!

\- - - 

In the mirror of Freddie's luxurious en suite, Roger looks like death warmed up. He stares at his blotchy face through bloodshot, puffy eyes for some time, contemplating mortality. Then leans over the sink and under the stream of cold water. 

When he emerges from the bathroom it's without his shirt and jacket. Both of them are stained and stink of sweat and smoke, and have been tossed aside into the bathtub. 

"Shirt," he grunts, already helping himself to something from Freddie's suitcase. 

"Yes," Freddie waves a hand belatedly, barely looking up. He's sitting on the floor beside the coffee table, cross-legged and barefoot, methodically cutting a line with the edge of a business card. 

The only unexpected part of this sight is that there’s any blow left.

Roger pulls on a shirt that feels a bit too tight for his liking, but Freddie’s scent clings to it and that’s nice. Amidst cold sheets that smell of perfumed detergent in hotel room after hotel room, and new places and faces, all exciting but all so alien, every bit of familiarity is treasured. Together, they’re at home anywhere in the world.

"We're never going to sleep," Roger notes with a weak smile.

Freddie throws his head back and cackles. "Sleep is for the wicked!" 

Roger chortles as he walks over to him. "Sleep is for the _weak_ , Fred." 

"What did I say?" Freddie looks up at him, all wide-eyed surprise. 

"Wicked." 

"Did I?" 

"Yeah." Roger drops down onto the sofa on the other side of the coffee table, letting his legs fall open and leaning back with his hands behind his head. “No rest for the wicked. You got ‘em mixed up.” 

“Oh, don't be so pedantic, darling, you knew what I meant.” Freddie’s back to cutting the white powder and separating it out neatly into two lines, before he slides one of them in Roger’s direction. 

Roger eyes it tiredly. In truth, he’s not that keen at this point. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he’s trying to count how many they’ve had. He thinks he’s had about half a dozen, which means Freddie’s probably had more. So it’s just as well if Roger has this last one, or else Freddie will have that, too. And he really shouldn't. 

“Did I cut your night short,” Roger asks, thinking back to the club. He’s honestly not entirely sure what happened there. The night is already turning into a blur in his head. 

Freddie straightens up and looks at him for a long moment, then twirls his wrist with a tut and a roll of his eyes. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Sorry,” Roger offers, because that sounds like a ‘yes’. “Should’ve just put me in the taxi.”

Freddie casts him an incredulous look and shakes his head, going back over the line in front of him with the business card, quite needlessly. His lips are pressed together tightly in concentration. It’s the same thing he does when he’s sketching, Roger notes absently. However, a mischievous grin appears on Freddie’s face after a moment, tugging at the corners of his mouth. He lifts the card and licks the edge, smacking his lips playfully. Roger doesn’t realise his eyes have been glued to Freddie's mouth until that mouth starts forming words addressed at him. 

“You could always make it up to me.”

“Sure,” Roger leans forward, half expecting an insane dare. “How?”

Freddie quirks an eyebrow, still grinning devilishly, and shifts onto his knees as he places one elbow on the coffee table and his chin in his hand. In a way only a drunk Freddie can be, he's somehow both incredibly graceful and very clumsy in his movements. 

“Blow me,” he purrs, batting his eyelashes.

"Jesus-" With a snort of laughter, Roger lets himself fall back against the backrest of the sofa again, one arm over his face. It’s a great joke, of course. (The best jokes hold a grain of truth.) Freddie’s cackling at his reaction, the cheeky sod, and Roger schools his features into a perfectly serious expression as he pulls his arm away and looks at him. 

“Yeah, alright,” he waves a hand in Freddie’s general direction in a businesslike manner, “trousers off, go on.”

“Piss off!” Freddie thinks this is hilarious, because of course he does, and he laughs until Roger can’t help but join in. When they've finally regained their composure, or however much there is left of it at this hour, Freddie hums and narrows his eyes, scrutinising him. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Don’t let me forget.”

But instead of asking any questions, he takes the rolled up twenty dollar bill he’s pulled out from somewhere and bends over the table. 

“That the last of it?” Roger asks as Freddie straightens up again with a sniff, rubbing the tip of his nose.

"It is," Freddie meets his eyes. “Why?”

“Just curious. Figured it was.” 

Roger accepts the note when it’s handed to him, then scoots to the edge of the sofa and bends down, pressing a finger over one nostril before he inhales deeply.

Breathe in, breathe out. Straight to the mesolimbic dopamine system. Funny how old knowledge from biology books he cared little about still sticks. 

He repeats the process with the other nostril, watching the last of the white powder disappear. The inside of his nose burns and goes numb, the bitter chemical taste dripping down the back of his throat, and that too is a soothing familiarity of a kind. 

When he goes to hand the note back, Freddie is running a finger over the glass, catching any stray particles of white. It’s not that he wants more, Roger knows, he’s just thorough. Always, with everything. Doesn’t ever do things by halves. 

Freddie takes the note back and tucks it away before he proceeds to rub his index finger over his gums, pursing his lips over his teeth once he’s done.

“Do you think,” he starts slowly and gives a chortle, eyes flickering up to Roger before he continues. “You know how it makes your mouth go numb?”

Roger simply raises his eyebrows, his bottom lip between his teeth because the urge to chew it has just increased tenfold.

“Do you think,” Freddie tries again and starts giggling like a maniac behind his hand.

“Spit it out.”

“Mmh.” He sucks on his teeth for a moment, getting a hold of himself, and with a great deal of honest curiosity inquires: “D’you think it would make your cock go numb?”

“Christ.” Roger breaks into wheezing laughter, shoulders shaking as he drops his head forward and runs his fingers through his hair. It's grimy from product and sweat. “Yeah, Freddie. Yeah, I reckon it bloody well would make your cock go numb if you dipped it in coke. Why the _fuck_ -”

“I was just-”

“Why would you _want_ -”

“Just wondering!” 

“What-” Now neither of them can stop snickering. “Wait, so- so you’re telling me you’ve never snorted coke off of some guy's dick before? That’s disappointing.”

Freddie bends over laughing and almost smacks his head on the coffee table.

“You alright there,” Roger wipes his eyes, watching him plant a hand on the table and stagger to his feet.

“Can you _imagine_?” Freddie throws himself onto the other end of the sofa amidst breathless giggles.

“I’d rather not.” He can’t help but try to imagine it anyway and rubs his eyes with a chuckle, shaking his head, as though that might help him get rid of the mental image.

While Freddie makes himself comfortable besides him, feet up on the edge of the coffee table and head resting on the backrest, Roger follows his example and toes off his shoes. That is definitely more comfortable, but not comfortable enough, so he swings his feet up onto the sofa beside Freddie and lies back, head on the armrest. Freddie’s hand comes to rest on top of his bent knees, fingers lightly tapping out a rhythm. Roger tucks his toes under Freddie’s bum.

“I mean, I’ve done a line off of some girl’s tit.”

“Did you?”

“You were there.”

“Oh, that’s right…” Freddie sounds a little dreamy, as though attempting to recall that particular night. The tapping on Roger’s knee stops for a moment, then continues, the rhythm slower. 

“So what was the deal-” Roger starts.

“Anyway, what I was-” Freddie says at the same time, and they both fall silent. “You first, darling.”

Roger stares into the middle distance for a bit because he doesn’t remember now what he’d been about to say. “Oh, right. What was the deal with that guy?”

 _Tap tap-tap tap tap tap-tap tap._

“At the club?” Roger adds when there’s no immediate reply to the first question. “Were you trying to get rid of him or…?”

“He was a bit…” Freddie shrugs, pausing for a moment. "Unpredictable," he chuckles and goes through a whole cycle of nervous habits. Tugging at the ends of his hair, picking at his face and biting at a nail the next moment before he wiggles his fingers, as if to shake out of the tension, and returns his hand to Roger's knee. “I don’t know, dear, does it matter?”

Roger immediately feels a little more alert, and it isn’t just the coke. It’s the alarm bell faintly ringing at the back of his mind. “You-” He lifts his head a bit to get a better look at Freddie over his knees. “You’re okay though, yeah?”

“Of course I am, don’t be silly,” Freddie dismisses him lightly.

The fingertips on Roger’s knee are drawing small circles now. It tickles a little, but not unpleasantly so.

Roger relaxes again. “Okay.”

“I’m not sure that I was trying to get rid of him, not exactly…” Freddie says after a moment.

“How d’you mean?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes find Roger, a smile on his face that is almost coy. "Maybe I was just…" He lifts his hand and Roger immediately wants him to put it back and keep stroking his knee, because he was quite enjoying that. Freddie rolls his wrist, closing and opening his fingers. "I was just playing." 

"Playing what?" Roger frowns. "Hard to get?" 

"Maybe." Freddie shrugs again and contemplates his own answer. "I wanted to rile him up a little more." There's a small, suggestive smile on his lips. "You know." 

Unfortunately, Roger does know, and he's not so sorry anymore that Freddie's had to leave because of him.

"What if you'd riled him up too much? You don't know-" 

" _Please_ , Roger." Freddie tuts and lifts his head off the backrest, fixing him with a look that is reserved for when Freddie knows _best_. Which is all the time. "He would've either fucked off…" The grin makes a return, fiendish and a little filthy. "Or fucked me into next week." His voice hits a higher note on the last word and he follows it up with a throaty chuckle, laying his head onto the backrest again. 

"Yeah, alright." Roger doesn't really need to hear about that, but of course Freddie is high as a kite and therefore has no filter. His hand drops back onto Roger’s knee, resuming its caresses.

"I had him all hot and bothered in the loos-" The tip of Freddie’s middle finger traces a slow circle. Unbidden, the mental image of Freddie sitting on the edge of the bathroom counter between the sinks forms in Roger’s mind. Long legs wrapped around some guy’s hips, his head tilted back as it is now. Moaning.

" _Anyway_ ," Roger cuts him off firmly as he rubs a hand over his arm and the goosebumps which have appeared there.

"Shame.” Breathing a sigh, Freddie rolls his head to the side to look at him again, pointing a graceful finger in his direction. "You do owe me, darling, but I'll settle for a drink or five." 

"Bottle of Stoli," Roger suggests with a smile. 

"Now you're talking."

Taking a deep breath, Roger stretches both of his arms up above his head and feels his back click in several places. Folding one hand behind his head, he drops the other onto the backrest of the sofa. 

It’s strange, this state. He’s tired but he isn’t. His mind is whirring with thoughts that demand to be expressed, but they only linger briefly, endlessly replacing each other. Yet each of them feels like a deep, meaningful truth. 

“Do you think we’re old?” His hand on the back of the sofa is restless, fingers sliding back and forth over the cool leather. “I mean, objectively speaking?”

“Yes,” Freddie says, and immediately changes his mind. “No. I don’t _feel_ old.”

“I do,” Roger snickers. There’s a dull pain in his lower back which usually makes itself known when he’s indulged a bit too much, in recent years anyway, and he really hopes it’s nothing to do with his liver.

Freddie lifts his head. “Really?”

“No,” Roger runs his hand over his face and combs it through his hair, pulling at the ends. “I don’t know, not really. I feel _older_.”

“Yeah.”

“Thinking back, I mean.”

“Right.”

“Because I used to feel old when I was eighteen,” Roger laughs, “or, like… twenty-two, I don’t know. I thought, Christ, I’m so grown up.”

Freddie chuckles.

“So actually I guess I feel younger now,” Roger concludes. “It’s like that thing… how does it go? He who knows best knows how little he knows. So it’s like… he who knows how old he is knows how… old… he isn’t?” He trails off and pulls a face. “I’m sorry, that doesn’t make any goddamn sense.”

“You were nineteen when I met you.” Freddie has already moved on to the next thought and Roger snorts quietly when their eyes find each other.

“Yeah,” he says and reaches for Freddie’s hand on top of his knee on impulse to give it a squeeze. But instead, their fingers become entangled and linger. Freddie blinks slowly and looks down, pulling his top lip over his teeth. And he might as well be twenty-two again, Roger thinks with a pang of nostalgia, because things change, but at the end of the day they don’t. 

“What were you gonna ask me?” he remembers. Freddie’s eyes fly up to him and he breaks into an awkward smile, pulling his hand away, out of Roger’s reach.

“Oh God,” Roger grins. “Am I going to be sorry?”

“It’s nothing, don't worry, I’m just being a nosy old hen," Freddie informs him and sniffs, scratching the tip of his nose. 

"Alright, 'm listening." Roger shifts a little and wiggles his toes underneath Freddie’s thigh. 

Freddie busies himself with his nails for another moment or two before he comes out with it. "Have you ever," his eyes flick over to Roger, "Have you ever... dabbled?" 

"What."

"After me." 

"Um." Roger sniffs, swallowing down the bitter cocaine-infused mucus at the back of his throat as he shakes his head. “No.”

“Oh.” 

"Although…”

“Oh my God.” Freddie’s eyes grow wider and Roger shakes his head again with a chuckle.

“No, not really.” He grimaces, looking for old memories somewhere up on the ceiling. “I snogged a drag queen one time. Does that count?”

“Oh my _God_!” Freddie laughs and slaps his knee. “Roger!”

“Yeah, but not… it was sort of a dare.”

“When was this?!” Freddie sounds borderline scandalised that he’s only now hearing of this.

“Christ... years ago,” Roger rolls his eyes, fingers trailing up beneath the collar of his - Freddie’s - shirt, picking at the skin of his shoulder. “Australia. I was very drunk. John was there.”

“He’s never told me,” Freddie pouts.

“Good man.” 

God knows there’s a thing or two Roger knows about each of his bandmates which he’ll most certainly take to his grave. 

“Well, I’m honoured, I suppose.”

When he looks up again, Freddie has a smug little smirk on his face.

“Yeah, well done.” Roger waggles his eyebrows, smirking back. “You put me off men for good.”

Freddie gasps dramatically. “How _dare_ -” 

“The ladies thank you.”

“Get out!”

It’s Roger’s turn to cackle wickedly, while Freddie crosses his arms with an affronted ‘hmph’, although there’s a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

“And here I’ve been bragging that I bedded a straight guy once,” he says airily, and Roger’s eyes snap to him, the laughter dying in his throat.

“You’ve not _told_ anyone?”

“God, no.” Freddie waves a hand. “Of course not. I tell them he was tall, dark and handsome.”

“I’m handsome,” Roger points out.

“Of course you are, dear.” Freddie pats his knee as he says it, and it’s stupid, but Roger wants him to mean it a bit more than that.

“Suppose that’s just one out of three…” he mumbles, trying to decide how he feels about the fact that Freddie has told people. Because Roger hasn’t told a single soul. But then, that’s different, he supposes. 

“Shit!” Freddie suddenly shouts, making him jump.

“What?”

He looks absolutely horrified for a moment and then shrieks with laughter, clapping his hands together. “Oh my God, Roger, I’ve just realised. Oh my God!”

“Realised what?”

“They must think,” Freddie is fanning himself with one hand, trying to reign in his laughter. “They must have thought I meant _Brian_.”

“Oh… oh shit!” Roger laughs, because that is actually pretty funny. "Tall, dark and... hah!" 

“Oh _no_ ,” Freddie lowers his face into his hand with a groan, although he’s still snickering.

“Is Brian _handsome_ though?” Roger ventures after a bit.

The look Freddie gives him is one of outraged amusement and he shrieks again. "Miss Lizzy! You catty bitch, I _love_ it.”

“That’s not how I meant it, come on!” Roger protests, still grinning. “It’s just I wouldn’t know, I don’t look at guys like that, much less my best friends!”

“Yeah...” The laughter peters out and Freddie averts his eyes, rubbing the tip of his nose. “You’ve made that pretty clear.” It’s not until then that Roger begins to realise what he has just said.

“I mean-”

“It’s alright.” Freddie shakes his head and pats his knee again, amicably, then removes his hand. “I’m only joking, dear.”

But he isn’t, and Roger knows that, because he’s the one who’s made a stupid joke tonight. So stupid that he didn’t realise it could have been taken as anything other than that. As every so often, the fragility behind Freddie’s shimmering facade of overplayed confidence and light-heartedness has taken him off-guard. Even after all these years, Freddie isn't an open book to him. So intricate and mysterious is the mind of Freddie Mercury that Roger can only ever hope to hazard a guess, or so he feels, as to what might be going on. It's both intriguing - because he loves a challenge, always has - but also infinitely frustrating, at times. Especially when Freddie glances at him with that wounded look in his eye, as though Roger ought to know the things he doesn't. 'I'm just an idiot,' he wants to say, every time, 'I'm just an idiot who cares about you.'

\- - -


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of this little story, which I have come to actually kind of love a lot?? I really hope you all enjoy it! ❤️
> 
> Plainxte, thank you for giving me a reason to write this, you sweet lady. 🥰
> 
> Was this inspired by Paramore's 'The Only Exception' a tiny bit? lol, yes.

\- - - 

The room sinks into silence while Roger tries to think of the right thing to say. It's tricky, because in his current state he could easily cross a line. Or several. 

Then again, who's to say either of them will remember anything they've said or done tonight? Given all the blow they've had it's not too likely. That thought is both strangely sad and comforting. Before he knows it, he’s started speaking.

“D'you know why I've never _dabbled_?” he hears himself ask. A pair of curious, dark eyes regard him cautiously. “Cause there’s never been anyone else like you.”

It sounds so corny. Like those American soap operas Dom gets sucked into sometimes when they happen to be on the telly. But it's also _true_ , plain and simple.  
Freddie's lashes flutter, a small frown between his brows as he draws a breath but doesn’t say anything, pressing his lips together tightly instead.

“Never came across another guy who’s made me feel like that,” Roger admits in a soft murmur.

Freddie’s voice is almost a whisper when he does speak, but his words are clipped, almost urgent, nonetheless. 

“Like what.”

That is a good question. Roger hadn't really thought that far, but he finds himself answering with such unguarded honesty that he can't quite look at Freddie as he says it. 

“Like I didn’t care.” So he stares at the coffee table instead, at the faint reflection of the lights in the glass. “About anything. Right or wrong, or… you know, _anything_. As long as… as I could have you." There's a twinge in his chest, like an old injury. Not pain so much as a tenderness. "So, yeah,” he smiles wryly, “I guess you’re the only exception.” 

"Huh." 

Freddie doesn’t say any more than that, just sits quietly, staring across the room, and Roger knows he should never have opened his mouth. 

Wishes he hadn't. 

A few long, awkward moments go by. Now might be a good time to make his way back to his own room, Roger realises, but just as he’s about to say so, Freddie suddenly speaks up.

"I'm… I'm quite tired, are you?" At first Roger is certain he's effectively being asked to leave, but then Freddie adds: "Shall we lie down?"

Roger looks up at him and Freddie looks away. 

“It’s just. This sofa isn’t very comfortable, is it,” he sniffs, the complaint almost casual if he weren't shifting and stretching to demonstrate his discomfort, frowning at the black leather. 

There are a few things Roger immediately knows, so much so that his heart rate picks up.  
One. He’s innocently shared many a bed with Freddie.  
Two. This won’t be like that.  
Three... for Christ’s sake. They can't be doing this. Even in his current state, he does realise that. 

"I _am_ lying down," he says, for that reason. "Comfortably."

Freddie is curling a lock of hair around his finger, his face turned away. 

“Fine,” he mutters curtly, and the pleasant warmth lifts off Roger’s feet as he pulls himself up from the sofa. 

Freddie is not somebody who takes rejection well, Roger knows that, but surely he must realise… He must realise, Roger thinks, his mind racing as he watches his friend stride over to the bed. He proceeds to throw himself onto it - rather ungracefully, Roger would say, except Freddie isn’t capable of moving without that fluidity and poise which comes to him so naturally. He grabs a corner of the duvet and rolls over until he’s cocooned himself in it, his back to Roger. It's a reaction so vulnerable in its childishness that it makes Roger's heart hurt. 

Outside it is quiet, except for the faint trill of birdsong in the distance. 

The watch on Roger's wrist makes it five minutes past five in the morning when he glances down at it, after some time. Slowly, as though afraid to move too fast and disrupt the silence, Roger stretches out his legs and stares down at his toes as he wiggles them. Very aware of the bed at the other side of the room, all the while. 

“Alright,” he finally murmurs, because he knows what he ought to do. 

Get up and say goodnight. Remember which room he’s staying in, and pray that he’ll be asleep sometime before seven. 

In his own bed. 

So he lifts himself up with a groan and stands. And hesitates for a moment so brief it's almost laughable - before he lets his feet carry him towards the bed. Freddie's bed, where the dark-haired man is lying stubbornly motionless. Most likely listening to his footfall, which is the only sound giving him away. The clicks in his ankles and the creak of a floor board. Both seem loud in the silence of the night.

The mattress dips under Roger's knee when he crawls up onto the double bed and shifts closer, and closer still, lying down on his side right behind Freddie. There's a little sound then. An intake of breath, somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. 

Roger wraps an arm around the lump of duvet containing his best friend.

“You look like a sausage roll,” he informs him, cautiously nuzzling into his hair, which smells of smoke from the club, and of Freddie. 

After a few seconds, Freddie turns his head a little, not quite enough to look over his shoulder.

“Will you stay with me?” 

It blows Roger’s mind that he sounds as if he really isn’t sure of the answer. Doesn’t he _know_?

“Course.” Roger hugs him a little tighter, his eyes half-closed, gazing into the mass of silky, black hair obscuring most of his view. His mind feels sluggish, all of a sudden. Or perhaps not so much that as overloaded, as unfocused as his gaze. Maybe this is alright. It is, isn't it? 

It doesn't have to be anything more than this. But then, Freddie’s shoulder presses into him and Roger releases his hold, moving back a bit so Freddie can roll over onto his back. It’s a bit like a frightened hedgehog uncurling, and Roger is overcome with such fondness that it threatens to choke him up. He props his head up on his hand and smiles, even as his entire focus shifts to this moment, leaving all else behind. Freddie. Just Freddie. 

“Hello," he whispers. 

His friend casts him a brief look, the duvet still pulled up to his chin, and quickly lowers his eyes again with a small shake of his head. “I- I don’t want anything from you.”

“I know,” Roger says softly, unfazed by the implications.

“I just want you… here…” Freddie falters, then, because Roger has lifted a hand to his face, brushing strands of dark hair off his forehead and running his fingers through them. Lazily undoing a few tangles. 

It's easier now that his hair isn't so long. He used to get dreadful knots in his hair, did Freddie, and sometimes it was Roger who'd slowly and gently brush them out for him. In the back of a rickety van or the corner of a cramped, shared room. Long ago. 

Freddie is gazing up at him from beneath his lashes. The look in his eyes is fragile like thin ice on a winter lake and Roger brings his hand down to the edge of his jaw, running his thumb over the stubble on his cheek. 

They’ve run out of words now, it seems. 

After a moment, Freddie leans into the touch and Roger leans down, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

It's him, once again. Isn't it. It was always him, on the surface of it. To act, to speak, to _kiss_ \- to be the first to confess. 

But it isn't quite like that, Roger knows. Because Freddie has such power over him that he is helpless, so much of the time. And he wonders if Freddie knows it. 

The small intake of breath he hears makes him want to never let go. To keep covering Freddie in soft kisses, so he might hear that sound again and again. He doesn’t pull away, even though he should. He can’t, not now that he’s here. All he can do is close his eyes as their lips slowly find each other. Touching so lightly. Both afraid to be the one to give in. To be the one responsible for this. 

Until they melt into each other as one and Freddie moans quietly when Roger's tongue slides against his. It isn't even a wanton moan. No, Roger thinks, it sounds and it feels like relief. Or despair. 

And he understands. 

It’s hard to deny that a part of him knew the night would end like this. Or, perhaps, it wasn’t knowing so much as… _hoping_. Which makes it worse still. 

There are things his conscience can excuse, because they are of little consequence and they have become as ordinary as harmless white lies. Another night on tour, another girl whose name and face he won't remember. They don't hold a candle to Dom. There's no _competition_ , and he's trying to be better about it, but at the end of the day all he does is try and fail to feel guilt. 

This, however, is different. It is different in so many ways that Roger cannot bear to think about his life outside of this moment. 

That is easier, much easier, with his mind frazzled and frayed at the edges from the various substances he's consumed tonight. Surprisingly simple to pretend that nothing else exists outside of this room, and that what happens here will only ever matter here, in isolation. Freddie is making faint, delightfully eager sounds against his lips, kissing him back so deeply. His hand slides into Roger's hair as Roger shifts half on top of him, the duvet still between them, although it's as if he can feel Freddie's heat through it. For someone who is so cold, so often, Freddie is like a furnace up close like this. Smoldering, burning up, hot. It's in the way he gives himself so much, so fully and immediately, to desire. To pleasure. To Roger. 

It's intoxicating, more so than any drug, and all Roger wants is more of him. He breaks away from Freddie's mouth, sucking on his full bottom lip for a moment, before he messily kisses his way down to his throat. Nails scrape across the back of his neck and the shuddering breaths beside his ear send shivers through him, his own desire pooling in the pit of his stomach. He pushes against Freddie, weighing him down with his body, and Freddie pushes back, hips rocking up against him through the duvet. Oh God.

Oh God… 

Perhaps it's that which brings reality into sharp focus, the awareness that Freddie is beneath him, one leg on his hip, as hard in his trousers as Roger is. He can't feel it through the blanket, but he _knows_ it, and that is enough. It's real, this is real, and oh God, what are they doing? 

It's ill-advised, a part of him insists, but Roger lifts his head and dares to look. Into the eyes of his best friend. His bandmate. The man he will always, in some form, love... _dearly_. But it isn't as simple as that. 

Nothing ever is. 

His inner struggle must be reflected on his face, because Freddie's gaze grows clearer and he pulls his lip over his teeth, bringing his hand to Roger's cheek. But Roger speaks before Freddie can. 

"I don't want to wake up regretting this," he murmurs hoarsely, leaning into the warm touch of Freddie's hand despite himself.

Freddie's eyes search his face for a moment or two before he replies. "You regret it already." 

It's a mere whisper, and even so, it betrays sadness. 

"No…" With a shake of his, Roger leans back in and kisses his lips, the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose simply because it is there. "I don't," he assures him, nuzzling against Freddie's cheek. "I don't ever want to regret you. Not you…" 

Freddie's arms wrap around him, but instead of passionate, the embrace is as comforting as it is needy. _Just stay, please just stay… don't let it end. Not just yet._

But Roger isn't going anywhere. He tells Freddie so, with tender kisses all along his temple, the sharp line on his cheekbone. He tells him so by wrapping him up in his arms in return, rolling them over to the side and holding Freddie close against him, forehead to forehead. Nose to nose, gazing at each other's lips until they're inevitably drawn in again. It's impossible to resist. 

"Is this alright?" Freddie breathes against his lips. 

"Yes," Roger replies, and understands, capturing his mouth in another kiss. There's no escalation in it now. They are no longer hurtling towards fleeting moments of passion, not chasing that goal. This is alright, it has to be. So innocent, surely, it must barely count. Simply being, caressing, it isn't enough but it's better than nothing. No - it's better than most. Most kisses and most embraces in Roger's life, and there have been many. But few have filled his heart like this, full to bursting, hammering inside his ribcage so fast he feels out of breath. Freddie slides his hands up his back, fingers tightening around handfuls of his shirt. 

And it all comes back to him. 

The feel of Freddie's evening stubble, the way he kisses, demanding but tender. Indulgent. Languid, almost. The way his breath hitches when Roger nips at his lips, even the way his teeth get in the way, a little. He remembers how they fit together, like puzzle pieces, how Freddie yields when he takes charge, how he invites him to tease and shudders against him with delight. 

So innocent, it must barely count, and yet so intimate it frightens and thrills him alike. They arrange themselves under the blanket, fully clothed, warm in each other's arms, and kiss until their lips are raw. Until the faint glow of dawn casts a greyish light through the window, before the sun has reached the horizon. They kiss until they physically can't, anymore, and then Roger rolls onto his back, taking Freddie with him. 

Freddie's head comes to rest on his shoulder, Roger's arm around him, their legs entangled and Freddie's hand on his chest. Over his wildly beating heart. It's a long time before either of them speaks.

"It'll never work, of course." Freddie exhales, fingers drawing circles on Roger's chest through his shirt. 

"Yeah." Roger has to clear his throat so that his voice will obey him. "No," he agrees, "it won't." 

They know this. They _know_ this.

Minutes tick by. Freddie shifts. 

"We'll fight." 

Roger gives a faint nod. "Oh yes."

"Constantly," Freddie adds, and Roger huffs out a laugh. "It'd be the end of Queen," Freddie concludes sadly. 

It isn't that they don't fight now. They do. _Constantly_ , Roger thinks. But that is different. And there are other reasons. There are plenty. 

"You'll cheat on me with guys who could snap me in half," he points out, prompting Freddie to snort with laughter, "and I'll hate you for it."

"You'll cheat on me with _girls_ ," Freddie complains after a moment, preemptively offended at the transgression, which he clearly considers to be more severe under the circumstances. 

"The press would find out," Roger says. "They'd have a field day." 

"Oh _God_ ," Freddie groans. "They'd never leave us alone again, can you _imagine_?"

"We'd be the gay band," Roger states flatly, and Freddie dissolves into a fit of giggles, even though that is the saddest, most disgustingly unjust thing of all. 

"The gay band," he sighs, wiping the corner of his eye. "Officially. It'd be the end of Queen," he repeats, once more, as though to make sure they both remember it. 

Silence settles again, and lingers, until both of them are breathing slowly and deeply. Each lost in their own thoughts. Roger wonders if Freddie is imagining Sunday mornings like this, away from the world. And evenings curled up in front of the telly. If he's thinking of hateful headlines and Brian and Deaky. Or his family. He wonders if he's thinking about David. Because in some corner of his mind, Roger is saying goodbye to a relationship he is, essentially, content with. Excited by. But that small part of him, right now, in this moment, thinks that he _would_. If there was a chance. Only there isn't - it isn't more than a thought experiment, because they can't. Do this. 

"Should we," Freddie starts after some time, his tone more serious now and somewhat uncertain. "Should we talk… about this. I mean… sober."

It takes Roger a while to respond because, in all honesty, he isn't sure what to say. So he asks a question in return. "Do you think you'll remember?"

Freddie, too, thinks about it for a moment. "I don't know."

The thought that one of them might remember all of this and the other won't takes a hold of him suddenly, and for some reason Roger doesn't like that idea, doesn't like it at all. "If you do… will you tell me?"

"Will you tell _me_?" Freddie shoots back immediately. 

"I don't know," Roger admits. 

Freddie drums his fingers lightly on his chest. "Let's promise," he says bodly. "Let's promise that we will tell each other."

"Okay." Roger isn't sure why he's agreeing, because part of him thinks this is a terrible idea. A potential recipe for disaster. 

"Okay," Freddie echoes. "Practice."

"What?" 

"What will you say? _How_ will you say it?"

"What," Roger chuckles, somewhat helplessly. 

With a sigh, Freddie lifts up his head and shifts until he's got his head propped up on his hand, gazing down at Roger. "Will you say, 'Freddie, I kissed you last night'? You won't say that, I know you won't."

"I might ask you if you remember first," Roger proposes. 

"And if I say no?"

"Then I'll say…" This is so incredibly silly. Roger's lips curl into a smile that is half embarrassment and half amusement. "Freddie," he starts solemnly, "last night… while we were both pretty fucked up-" He meets Freddie's eyes and Freddie grins, waggling his eyebrows. "We did something we haven't done in a long time." 

"Ooh, that's good," Freddie coos and nods curtly. "Yes. And what is that?" He gestures with his hand, prompting him to go on, but then continues speaking instead. "I'll say. That's what I'll say, of course. But I'll know, I think… I'll already know."

"I'll know you know." Roger agrees. "So," he chews his lip for a moment. "So I'll just, I'll say… _this_." He turns his head a little and looks into Freddie's eyes, lifting one hand to his cheek. When he lets his gaze drop to Freddie's mouth, the dark-haired man wets his lips and leans in, even while Roger pulls him closer, into a slow, heartfelt kiss. 

"And then?" Freddie breathes as they separate, his eyes heavy-lidded. 

That is the crux of the matter. "I guess we'll see."

Freddie hums, tracing a line down Roger's chest as he contemplates this for a moment. "I think…" He sounds as though he's about to say something very profound, until he slowly breaks into a grin, eyes flicking up to Roger's face. "You should practice that last part… a little more." 

It's impossible not to return that grin, even though they shouldn't be joking around, not when so much is at stake. But Roger is too tired and too… _content_. He just can't muster the worry, the common sense, all those things, right now. "You think so, huh." 

"Yes," Freddie utters almost soundlessly, and no sooner has he done so, than Roger robs him of the chance to say any more. 

\- - - 

"Freddie? _Freddie_!" 

The sun is painfully bright when reality rudely rouses them from their slumber in the form of Paul Prenter, rapping on Freddie's door.

"Yes..." Freddie calls - groans - back, eyes barely open, and fails to so much as lift a finger. Roger climbs over him and falls out of bed, stumbling to his feet and dragging himself to the door. 

"Freddie, it's quarter to..." The sight of Roger, leaning in the doorway, silences Prenter. "Morning." He blinks, eyes wandering past Roger to the bed, and Roger suddenly panics before he realises that, yes, he's definitely still wearing last night's clothes (and Freddie's t-shirt, it would seem). Nothing untoward to see here.

"Morning," he croaks, squinting at Paul, one hand still on the door handle, his head a confusing mess of memories and vivid dreams. "We'll be up in a bit." 

"Alright." Paul nods, glancing towards Freddie again. "Just wanted to make sure everything was fine."

"Yup," Roger yawns, ruffling his hair. "All good. He's alive."

"Grand." Paul hovers for a moment before he mutters something about the schedule and departs, and Roger closes the door, shuffling back towards the bed. He has every intention of getting back into it, except with the sight of Freddie there, who is watching him with his eyes half-open, more hazy memories fill his head. Out of order, confused and full of gaps. He can't- he can't quite remember _how_ \- but he remembers enough, and the moment he is sure it wasn't a dream, his stomach drops.

Roger swallows, standing a few steps away from the bed, the taste in his dry mouth disgusting and a pounding headache quickly coming on. 

Freddie lifts his head, looking back at him with eyes full of realisation and a sort of mild horror, and there's no need to wonder. No need to inquire what he's just remembered. Or so Roger thinks. 

"You alright," he murmurs stiffly.

Freddie nods, lowering his head into his hand. "Are you?"

"Yeah," Roger looks around the room, folding his arms over his chest. "Yeah, um... Gonna... go find my room."

"Yes." Freddie threads his fingers into his hair, head between his hands.

"Okay," Roger nods to himself. "Right, okay." He has no idea where the fuck he's left his shirt and jacket, but that doesn't seem like such a pressing issue right now. He feels around his trousers and there's the hotel key in his pocket. Breathing a sigh of relief that this, at least, won't be a problem, Roger takes a few unsteady steps towards the door. And hesitates. 

"Are you-" He glances back over at Freddie, who is now sitting up on the bed and cautiously meets his eyes. "You sure you're alright?"

 _Are_ we _alright?_ is what Roger really wants to ask, but can't bring himself to say. Freddie's face softens as he tilts his head, pulling his knees up close to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

"I'm fine, dear," he replies, the faint smile on his lips tired and his voice like sandpaper - he'll have a fit about the state of it later, Roger thinks absently. "Not to worry."

"Right," Roger smiles a weak smile in return, even as he makes for the door. "See you later then."

And yet, much as he is in a hurry to leave, he stops once he's pulled the door shut behind himself. Even while his stomach churns with anxiety, there is a part of him that wants to be back in that room with Freddie this very minute. 

He lifts his hand, resting it against the door. _No._

He could knock. _Don't._

He could. _Leave it_.

What would he say? There's nothing to say.

What will you say? Freddie's voice echoes in his head, only he doesn't remember why or the context of the words. 

Be reasonable, Roger tells himself. This - _this_ \- was an exception. And it won't happen again. Don't make it worse. 

Don't be such a fool. 

Still, his hand lingers.

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hums* _Darling, you are the only exception......_ Anyone else feel like there could be a sequel here? 😂 👀


End file.
